


a power greater than yourself

by werebird



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Addiction, Alcoholics Anonymous, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Religious Discussion, Sobriety, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:29:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26055745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebird/pseuds/werebird
Summary: Just because Steve couldn't get drunk didn't mean he couldn't get addicted. And being a superhero didn't make those twelve steps any easier.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Brock Rumlow
Kudos: 6





	a power greater than yourself

It would make for a shocking headline, wouldn't it? For a decent scandal. Captain America an alcoholic. And not just him. His STRIKE team commander too. The papers would have a field day. Tearing them apart. 

But so far the vows of anonymity hadn't been broken by anyone. They were reminded at every meeting to respect them. 

Steve sat in the back where he always sat, sunken into his seat. He wasn't going to share anything, he wasn't going to introduce himself. He had nothing to contribute really, he wasn't an alcoholic. He couldn't get drunk. But that didn't mean he couldn't develop an addiction. Which he had. 

His name was Steven and he was an addict. 

At first he had blamed everything else. The war, the experiment, the life he'd lost. Being used by S.H.I.E.L.D. in a way he wasn't always sure he wanted to be used. But his addiction predated all of that. The serum had amplified it. He was addicted to pain and he was addicted to fights. He was addicted to the adrenaline, the lightheadedness after failing to dodge a hit, the shock when he had to drop to his knees and the rush of power when he got back up. 

Then he had, like all other addicts, bargained with himself and the word. Arguing that if he was healing fast enough, the hurt didn't count, that it was all for a greater good, that it was S.H.I.E.L.D. who put him at the frontlines, not he himself. But deep down he knew there was no rational reasoning with an insane mind. He wasn't ever going to find his way out while leading himself. 

It had been a long road already. Some say that first step was the most difficult. Realizing that his addiction, his life had become unmanageable. 

Sitting in meetings, Steve still paid attention. Despite the distractions he chose to focus on every once in a while. Brock in particular. He needed to pay attention. Steve had been sober for just seventeen days now. Before that he had made it to day twenty-three. His personal record had been twenty-seven days previously. And only twelve before that. It usually depended on if and when Fury sent him on another mission. Every mission caused him to spiral until he'd wake up somewhere, beaten and bloody and bruised,-- and healing of course--, feeling like shit. He hit rock-bottom every time. There were always guys out there eager to throw a punch. 

Everything Steve wanted was to make it to thirty days once. 

Brock was sitting two rows in front of him, but off to the side, refusing to look back. Like he did every week. 

Steve had learned that Brock went every week. Steve didn't know what it meant regarding his struggles. Steve didn't know anything about his struggles aside from the fact that he was sober longer than three months but less than six years. There had been a six year milestone achievement celebration last week and it had apparently been the first time anyone in the group had lasted this long. It was the only milestone Steve had witnessed since he started coming to meetings. Eighty-six days ago. Steve went almost every night. He had missed meetings because of his benders. Because he was still fucked after getting his head beaten all night. But eventually he went again, finding his way back every single time. It wasn't like he had other plans. 

He wasn't the only one who had relapsed since, too many faces coming and going. Coming for a meeting or two, then disappearing. Others dropped out after weeks, never to be seen again. Some of them had surrendered to their addiction for good. But so far, Steve hadn't been one of them. 

At work, Brock and Steve kept their silence too, exchanging only relevant information or nods of acknowledgement. Steve had thought about leaving the group and looking for another when he'd recognized Brock, but something had stopped him. And Brock had returned every week as well. 

Steve had never given a second thought to who Brock Rumlow was in private, but that was before he had learned that he was raised Catholic. Something they had in common. 

There was no way to tell whether Brock still prayed to that same God. Steve had lost his faith decades ago when Bucky had died. 

Steve had no trouble recognizing that he was broken and that fixing himself was too big a task for him, but step two just seemed like an impossible challenge. He had half-heartedly called on every higher power in the book to look after him. He had prayed to Erskine's ghost himself to fix him. Fix all of him. But Steve just didn't believe that anyone would answer anymore. 

It was hard to believe in a higher power when he himself was supposed to be one. When he'd seen the god of thunder reach for a beer. Steve didn't know where to start. Part of him simply believed he was unfixable no matter how high the power. 

He watched Brock, watched his jaw working over the same gum for forty minutes now. He still kept his eyes straight, straight away from Steve. They weren't here for each other after all. 

Never would he have guessed that Brock was fighting the same demons. Similar ones. On the job, Steve had always trusted him without doubt and Brock had been reliable without exception. If anyone had gone off script it was Steve in order to chase another beating or keep it going, to put himself in harm's way, in between bullets. They had been on missions together since Steve had started going to the meetings, but Brock hadn't ever said a single word when he'd gone off the rails. Maybe Brock assumed Steve was just your regular alcoholic. 

Steve wasn't sure whether he wanted Brock to say something. At first, after his first meeting, Steve had been terrified that Brock would. Had been terrified that he would have to behave perfectly from now on, sustain the unsustainable. But no words had ever been exchanged regarding Steve's recklessness. Lately, Steve began to think it wouldn't be the worst thing though. To be held accountable. The disappointment of the relapse seemed to grow with each time. He had gone without fights before, but not going after his drug for a couple of days because the urge was low or to prove to himself that he could and relapsing after committing to sobriety were two different things. He had relapsed three times in the past three months and he was tired of it. They say the first thirty days are the worst physically and that sobriety hit differently after ninety. Steve wanted nothing more than to know what that would feel like. 

Maybe he would need to take time off work to get there. It seemed impossible though. 

Steve realized he was bouncing his knees, the restless nervous tells of an addict. Brock was calm. What Steve could see of him was calm. Sobriety wasn't making him anxious anymore. Had become something quietly sitting with him instead. 

When Steve was feeling down he liked to imagine all the terrible things that needed to happen so he could have a legitimate reason to go out and get hurt. Terrorists, war, more aliens. Then he felt guilty for imagining. He loved being sober, feeling strong enough to remain sober, but all day he obsessed about the impossibility of his sobriety. 

How could Captain America not fight. Not get hurt so that other people didn't have to. It was his responsibility. Had been his choice and his destiny. How could he not put this one gift to use. 

Two rows in front of him, Brock checked his watch and stretched out his legs. Today didn't seem like a bad day for him and Steve wondered why he'd bothered to show anyway. Of course it was part of the work, but he'd never seen Brock do any of the work. Except showing up. But neither was Steve. He showed up late every night. He never wanted to talk to anyone, be recognized. He never shared. Brock never shared. They just listened. 

It had been three months and Steve had actually come close to sharing a handful of times, and he had wanted to too. But before he had a chance to raise his hand, all words had left him. 

In the early days, Steve had panicked that somehow S.H.I.E.L.D. knew about him and had sent Brock to spy on or babysit him. Though he had no idea how they could have known about his last minute decision to go to his first meeting. He hadn't told anyone. Had debated with himself, convinced to not go until he went. And when he snuck in a couple minutes late, Brock was already there, sitting in that same spot he was in now. Reminding himself of that fact helped, but it hadn't silenced Steve's paranoia altogether. 

Nothing helped altogether. 

His addiction fed his paranoia constantly. 

He was powerless.

Captain Fucking America was powerless. 

Step one? Done. 

Now onto step two. But who to believe in? Who did Brock believe in? What kind of God did he pray to? 

If it's broken, you call someone to fix it. You believe there's someone to fix it. There was someone to fix everything. Erskine fixed Steve and Steve fixed the war and freedom fixed fascism. But Erskine died, and Bucky died and fascism survived. 

Seventeen days on step one. It was just a matter of time until Fury would call again. Steve could already hear his voice. Calling for Steve to fix things. Steve who was insane. Who could feel the itch of a next fight crawling beneath his skin. Lost cause, lost cause, lost cause, it echoed inside his head. He was done with justifications. Telling himself that he was in control when he wasn't. Telling himself it wasn't that bad when it was. He knew all that now, acknowledged it, but couldn't change it. 

Someone tried to break it down every other session, repeating the mantra that your higher power can be anything you believe in, can be science, psychology, modern medicine. Can be astrology or ancient aliens. It didn't fucking matter. If something's on fire, do you believe in the existence of rain? In the existence of water? Do you believe in the existence of firefighters? If something's stuck in the drain, do you believe in the existence of a plumber? If you got a cold, do you believe in the existence of immune systems? Do you believe in the existence of doctors? If your flight got canceled, do you believe in the existence of some call center agent to help you out? If Captain America was fucked, do you believe a God, a universe, that Peggy Carter herself could fix him? 

Steve didn't. 

It was the one thing he couldn't bring himself to do anymore. 

He was the exception, wasn't he? He couldn't be restored to sanity. He was beyond rescue. 

"Don't worry, we're the good guys, remember?" Brock reminded him days later after a mission briefing. The words caught Steve off guard. Brock's voice caught Steve off guard. It seemed they hadn't talked in months. 

"Yeah," Steve just said. But even that he didn't believe anymore. He didn't want to go and he must have looked like it. Otherwise, Brock wouldn't have bothered coming up to him. 

Steve fumbled with his shield as if it was harmless. Innocent. As if it was still able to protect him these days. From himself. 

"I can see you're willing, Steve," Brock said, something shifting in his tone. Something that told Steve his worst fear had just come true. They were addressing it. "But you have to do whatever it takes. Take the necessary steps." 

The steps. 

Steve couldn't look at him. He had too many questions. He wanted to ask how. How he could do that if he was the exception. 

"It's getting worse with time," Brock added. He stepped closer, Steve could see the tip of his shoes where he stared at his own. "I wouldn't want to see you dead, but that's where you're heading, buddy." 

Buddy. 

Steve nodded. No one liked to hear that. But Steve knew. Was aware of his own choices. He was ashamed of them, but he was more ashamed of being called out on them. 

"You gotta want to live first in order to live sober," Brock went on. Physically, he was too close already, but his words hit even farther. "You gotta believe that there's a life after this," he finished, then stepped back. 

And when Steve dared to look up, he was gone. 

When Steve arrived at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in the morning, the team had already left. It was just after five though so it wasn't that he was late. He should have had twenty minutes to spare. 

He stopped one guy jogging down the stairwell towards the vehicles, asking him why he hadn't been informed. That guy just shrugged and told him to ask Rumlow because he was the commanding officer. Steve let him go. 

He was angry. He felt caught once more. Wondering if he was left behind because Brock deemed him unreliable now. He felt ashamed and paranoid. Stripped bare. His secret out in the open. There was only a small part of him that considered the other option. That Brock had decided to leave him behind to spare him. Give him another chance. To go to another meeting instead of another fight. To reach the end of day twenty-one, twenty-two and twenty-three. So he could make it to thirty. Another chance to choose life over his very own exceptionalism. A chance to choose to believe that there was a life after addiction. A life with his addiction. A life with sobriety. 

It was up to Steve now to take it. To believe that smallest part over the other that believed he was being punished. Have faith. In people, individuals. Take what Brock offered and make something of it. 

Tentatively, Steve began wondering if he could. 

Sometimes a leap of faith was a leap into faith. He had to start believing there was something out there greater than him, stronger than him, that could restore those broken parts. 

Something that had given him this sign. 

Now or never. 

Life or death. 

_That's where you're heading, buddy._

He doubted Brock would give him a second chance if he'd fucked this one up. Next time, Steve would be back, putting his body on the line. Again. Like so many soldiers before him.

He thought of Bucky and finally managed to look past himself. Maybe Captain America was beyond salvation, but that kid from Brooklyn deserved to survive. 

This time, Steve realized, he wanted to choose life.

It was on day thirty that Steve found the courage to share for the first time. Funny, how Captain America still had to build courage. 

"I'm Steve," he said, because he wasn't Captain America. Not just. His heart was racing although no one he knew was in the room. It was a Wednesday and Brock went Thursdays. This had nothing to do with him. "A week ago, I was still looking for faith," he admitted, "for spirituality." He could barely look up as he spoke. The room was quiet, everyone else silent. "But I've been to hell and back multiple times," he said. "I've lost everything and I've got nothing left, nothing to hold onto." He took a deep breath. "But I'm still here and I'd like to believe it's not for nothing." Obviously, he left out that part where he was brought back against his will. Into a world he neither liked nor understood. "I don't want to lay down my life for nothing. For nothing but an addiction." Though he remained vague about the details of his addictive behavior, the sentiment was genuine. If he was going to get himself killed again, then for something meaningful. "I'm used to standing up, ready to put up a fight. Standing back up always to fight more." More than that, he was used to standing up for others. But this time he had to finally stand up for himself. Put his sobriety, his survival first. "I'm ready to sit down now," he announced, his fingers shaking. This was new and it was scary. But he imagined Brock being proud of him. Imagined Bucky being proud of him. It gave him the strength to go on and turn himself over. "I'm ready to place myself into hands greater than my own." 

**Author's Note:**

> one day at a time ❤️


End file.
